Regret
by wicherwill
Summary: Alone, Lily can't help but remember.


It's always the worst when she sees James off. Or Sirius, or Remus, or even Peter. Guilt washes over her, like the proverbial flood, and there's nothing she can do.

Because she _can't _just forget.

Obviously, there's something wrong if she waits until the house is completely empty before taking it out. If she were truly honest with herself, it's not just nostalgia: it's her darkest, dirtiest secret.

Taboo, even. They never mention it, not ever. None of them do…not James, nor Sirius, Remus, Mary, Alice, or any of the Order members who have become like the family that she lost.

Her real family…sometimes, she can't help but wonder if he was responsible for her parents. She knows that she blames him for Tuney, even though he wasn't the reason that she and her sister diverged. But she knows it's a real possibility that he was directly responsible for that ugly green shadow that hung over her parent's house the day of her wedding.

And yet…she just can't forget.

The house is empty, of course. She wouldn't be rustling amongst her old school work if it weren't. She was a pack rat by nature, and she still had every last bit of parchment that she'd ever touched.

She fools herself, sometimes, that it was simply her nature that led her to keep…her hands brush against a smooth, wooden box. Carefully, she takes it out and leaves the bedroom, although she won't admit that there's any reason why she should. She just would rather sift through its contents in another room (where she doesn't feel like she's violating her wedding vows).

There's no dust to brush away, and she likes to think it's because her grasp of housekeeping skills is above average. The state of the living room floor, where old wine stains have forced her to do some subtle rearranging, reminds her otherwise.

Slowly, almost reverently, she lays out its contents. Pictures. Letters. A few sheets of parchment with sketches and grandiose plans. A necklace. She doesn't really need to look at any of it, as she's memorized the smooth, even lines (such careful, meticulous handwriting for a boy, she'd used to tease).

The news at the last Order meeting had been far too precise, and had managed to penetrate her carefully erected walls of self-denial. She needed to forget, needed to turn back the wheel of time.

Her fingers deftly separated a well-worn letter. Leaning against the wall, her eyes greedily read the now-familiar words.

_Dear Lily,_

_Thank you for your letter and pictures. The South of France seems like a nice place from what I can tell—I really don't understand how Muggles find stationary photos satisfying, I don't. I feel rather idiotic staring at them, but I suppose I can imagine what it must be like. Your letter was well written. You're a very good writer._

_I showed my Father one of your pictures, one of the ones with just some scenery. It seemed to calm him down a bit, even if he was still suspicious. I swear he thought that it would explode in his hand, but eventually he realized that it was just a picture._

_I found some fascinating books in Father's study, actually. It's odd…I never thought much of Muggle literature but don't yell at me or scrunch your face up as I know you're doing, Miss Evans. __It's not my fault that __You see I was going to excuse myself but I remembered what you said and I held back. Sort of._

_Anyway, I read _Mayor of Casterbridge_, like you suggested, and then _The Count of Monte Cristo_, which I know you said you didn't like. As per usual, I find myself completely at odds with your opinions. I don't know…seems as if Henchard was just an idiot, really. I mean, drunk or not I think that you'd know better than to auction off your family. I don't know. Seems like a silly reason to move the plot forward. But I liked the Count much better, even if he did lose his nerve by the end._

_I find that if I sleep before Father comes home, I can wake up in the middle of the night when he's already asleep and read some more. It's hard getting myself to sleep that early, though…and on top of that the last time I saw Mother she was looking rather haggard. I wonder if I should stick around to help her. With. You know._

_Well, I hope the rest of your holiday is good. I'll try and send this off as soon as I can—you know how Lawrence gets after long journeys. _

_Severus._

Could she have known?

Peter had said once, when he thought she wasn't around, that some people were bad from the start and were doomed. They'd been worried about her, she knew. It tore at her that she was hurting them, but she couldn't let go.

Had there been signs?

Sometimes, she looks at James and Sirius and wonders how they'd made it work. They'd been day and night, even more different. They were the inseparable conjoined twins, after all these years and all the uncertainty.

What could she have done differently?

_P.S. Just in case he does collapse, a blanket apology—I always _mean _to write back to you (you're my best friend, after all). It's really not my fault if the circumstances make it out of my reach (excusing myself again, I know. Oh well.)_


End file.
